To Sleep the Night Shooting Out the Stars
by Lastavica
Summary: Clint takes his first steps as an assassin. Nothing glitters.


_This follows the version of events (regardless of it's origin ?) in which Barney was in on the schemes with The Swordsman and together they hurt Clint and abandon him when he finds out they've been stealing from the circus. For the sake of this one shot, I've left out any of the Clint-gets-left-for-dead stuff. As much as I love the idea. So here, Barney and the Swordsmen steal the Circus' money. Clint finds them. They punch him out and ditch the circus entirely._

_-* Possible trigger warning for suicidal ideation.*-_

**And Thank you so much to Ani-maniac494 for your edits and feedback on this!**

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_"I am a boy, I am a child, with those simple dreams still burning in my heart." *_

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Clint couldn't quite process what had happened. They were gone. Both of them were gone. His big brother and the man who said he would watch out for him hadn't taken a second look at him. The only answers he'd received were solid punches to the gut and kick to the head. When he woke up, all he could figure was that he had to get out. He had to get far far away. Where wasn't important. He just started moving and didn't look back.

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Being under the late July sun in southern Minnesota wasn't so bad, but he was thirsty. He was pretty hungry too, though he tried not to think about that. The last thing he'd eaten was a stick of jerky given to him by the last trucker to offer him a lift. That was the day before. He walked with his head down, hands shoved into the pockets of his dirty jeans. He kicked at the gravel as he went along on the highway shoulder. Almost everything he owned was stuffed in the backpack he was wearing. Slung over his shoulder he carried his bow and quiver.

He'd been hitchhiking since just south of Kansas City. By now, the circus was probably setting up in Joplin. That thought crossed his mind and immediately Clint buried it. The sight of his dusty sneakers was a much better alternative.

Once he crossed back into Iowa, Clint bit his lip and promised himself it was the last time he'd see that place. So he kept on heading north, trying to get out of that God forsaken state as fast as possible.

His stomach made a noise that was hard to ignore. He squinted into the afternoon sunlight. There was a semi coming his way so he quickly pulled a hand from his pocket and held out his thumb. Clint couldn't suppress a grin in when the truck began to slow. Maybe the guy would have a little food to spare. Peanuts or something. Anything. The truck rolled to a stop just ahead of him and Clint jogged to meet it. He pulled open the door and climbed into the cab.

Once settled, he turned to the driver. The man wasn't even looking at him. He squinted slightly as he faced the road ahead, hands resting casually over the steering wheel. He wore a red t-shirt, the sleeves cut off. He was bald, but his beard was long and grayish brown.

"Thanks," Clint said to him, pushing a hand through his sandy hair.

"Where you goin'?"

"North," Clint said with a shrug. "I guess."

"Fair 'nough," the driver said as he got the truck moving again.

After a half hour or so of riding quietly, Clint couldn't take it anymore. He had to test his luck. "You got any food to spare?"

The man motioned to bag by Clint's feet. Clint dug into it and found five or six cans of beans.

"Last resort stash," the man said. "Go 'head and crack one open."

A wash of relief came over the boy as he pulled his knife from his back pocket. Puncturing the can, he then jimmied it open and got right to work eating the contents. He was so hungry. He hadn't realized just how much until the smell of canned kidney beans filled his nose.

"Thank you..."

"Dan," the man said.

"I'm Clint. ...Where you going to?"

"Twin Cities."

Clint nodded. Then that's where he was going also.

"Can I ride with you that far?"

"Wouldn't bother me."

"Thank you."

"That all you got to say?" Dan asked, clearly not looking for an answer.

Clint gave a half smile and didn't say anymore after that.

On the highway, still outside the cities, he asked Dan to let him out. He wasn't ready to go there yet. Dan dropped him off when the sun was still lighting the horizon. Before Clint shut the door to the cab, the man tossed him another can of beans. "To hold you over," he said.

Clint raised the can in thanks and waved goodbye. Turning from the road, he crossed a ditch and made his way to the foot of a little slope by an overpass. He settled into the grass and watched the sun go down. When it was all but gone, he pulled his hoodie from his backpack and nestled into the grass. He fell asleep to the sound of the cars and trucks passing and the slow build and fade of headlights behind his eyelids.

The morning summer sun woke him. He sat up, pulled a spider off his arm and spat out the taste of dirt and a night spent by the highway. Clint took out his knife and opened Dan's can of beans. He sat on the slope next to the overpass and watched the cars as he ate his breakfast. When he was done, he stood up and stretched.

Stepping out onto the gravel shoulder, Clint began walking towards the city with no plans at all.

He was fortunate to catch one more ride the rest of the way in.

That night he slept on a growling stomach and a slab of concrete.

. . . . .

For two months he rarely slept the same place twice and did his best to avoid bedding down in places with many people. More and more he gravitated towards higher vantage points. He managed to sleep plenty of nights on fire escapes without notice. Only once or twice was he discovered by apartment dwellers. Every other time he was awake and gone by dawn. He was strong enough and agile enough to climb and there were nights he made it up to ledges that seemed more than deadly. The chance that he would wake up dead didn't seem like such a bad thing to him.

He managed to find a big, floppy duffel to conceal his bow and quiver. Carrying them around out in the open had made him too much of a target for attention. That tattered purple duffle and his backpack stayed with him at all times. He was almost always on the move, all over the city.

Clint made a few connections with people around town, but never anyone who share his circumstances. The frequency of hand outs came and went. What he became best at was watching. Climb a little, stand back a bit, and just watch. In a short time, Clint was eating well every day. Patterns, habits, and timing. None of it escaped his notice and stealing became too easy for him. He thought about trying his hand in simply stealing money. That would probably work out well, but as soon as he'd considered it he had to put it out of his mind. It made him remember his pain, and that needed to stay buried.

He remained a loner through the summer. If anybody else on the street, - older people, kids his age, druggies or hookers - tried to make friends or make deals he put up a wall and avoided them like the plague. He made very clear that he couldn't be counted on, that he wasn't a friend. He looked out for Clint and only Clint. He didn't have anybody and he didn't want them either. After everything with his brother, he could hardly stand the sight of kids his age.

He managed to make a little money doing an odd job here and there, but stealing was faster and easier.

He thought he was getting pretty good at being homeless. That is, until the first cold fall night in October. Clint wouldn't even admit it to himself, but he cried half the night through.

Winter was coming fast and things got bad quick. All his sleeping and watching and stealing, and even the little odd jobs were always outside. All he had was his hoodie, and he wasn't even wearing socks under his sneakers anymore. Clint knew he had to get out of Minnesota. He needed to head south, but the thought of hitchhiking in the coming snow sat like lead in his stomach. He needed a ride, but that cost money.

How else does an empty handed kid make some money? He couldn't even let himself think about stealing cash. It was too raw, too painful. Become a mule? Give yourself to people who don't really want you? The former he considered, and the latter was too repulsive. He didn't think he was that desperate or ever would be. There was always another option. He knew the area well enough now. He knew the places to stay far away from and the people you didn't want to cross. But those people dressed well. Those people went through doors and stayed under roofs. They ate. He knew they were dangerous people. He knew it could get him killed, but one too many freezing pre-dawns, shaking so hard he couldn't hold his tears in, convinced him it was worth a shot.

So, he found a perch and watched an alley he'd known better than to visit. After two days of watching the comings and goings of a particular steel door, he made his move. Right up to the door he went with all the false confidence his wiry frame could muster. He buried his surprise at the sound of the metal door beneath his own knuckle. The two huge bouncers, who he had seen previously, appeared. Clint played it straight and asked for a job. First they laughed, but when the boy didn't take off, they pushed him inside and one of them rummaged through his stuff while the other kicked the crap out of him. When they finished hurting him, a thin, cold faced man appeared and crouched next to Clint. Same question. Why was he there? He sputtered through bloody lips that he was looking for a job. That's all. The man asked for his name and Clint told him. He stood up, walked to a phone on the wall, and made a call. After a moment he hung up the phone and told Clint to get up and follow him. He was brought to a man across a desk, sharply dressed and sick behind the eyes. This man needed no mule and fortunately did not require Clint's youth. No. It was the bow that intrigued him.

"Is that a toy?"

"No, sir," he said, wiping blood from his lip.

"Are you a good shot?"

"Yes, sir."

No time was wasted. Clint was taken to a place and made to demonstrate his skill. His aim impressed the man. Clint was then brought to a kitchen. He was seated at a table and fed well. The man talked while the boy ate. He had plenty of guns and even more men who'd be glad to use them, but this seemed novel. He smirked as the boy wolfed down the food he'd been given.

"You need a little money. I need a little job."

Clint listened but his mind was on the food, on his stomach. He was so hungry.

. . . . .

The first time was awful.

He sobbed violently for over an hour, expelling his innocence up from his chest. It burned so badly. He sobbed until he vomited. Eventually he fell asleep, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

Hollow-eyed he went to receive his payment.

They paid him in cash and told him to come back or they'd find him and make him regret it. The job paid enough money for a ride and Clint was on a bus by sundown.

He never looked back.

Two days later he was sitting on a truck stop bench in Plano, just staring at nothing. After that, h managed to drift all over Dallas for a few months but, soon enough, the money ran out. He knew now that big bucks were within his reach, and the heart in his chest was already shattered. He didn't have anything to lose.

On his 17th birthday, a little further from home and a lot better dressed, Clint took his second job.

Each time he watched the light flicker out of one pair of eyes, he hoped only that he would fade with it. But he remained, and every wad of cash placed in his hand or tossed across a desk in front of him was the price of his heart. And, no matter how much he thought he could sell it off piece by piece it kept right on beating inside his chest. The red blood kept flowing beneath his skin. Sometimes, when he sat alone on the road side waiting for a ride or on a bus as the slideshow of landscape slipped past him, he would stare at the veins in his palms and wrists. He would will the blood in them to freeze, but it wouldn't. So, Clint kept doing the one thing he'd done since leaving the circus: he kept moving and didn't look back. He told himself that really, nothing had changed. He was still just a kid who used a bow to line his pockets like he'd done at the circus.

The blood on the arrows never really let him believe it.

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*Lyric from the song "So Well" by Dawes

And the title of this one shot comes from the U2 song, "White as Snow".

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...Only after writing this was I reminded of a song by Dead Man Winter called "Long Cold Night in Minneapolis".

"You'll never know me, the way I know sorrow. And cryin' helps nothin', but it's all I got left."

...Ow! My heart!


End file.
